Bourbon Across the Ages
by Thaddeus MacChuzzlewit
Summary: Two ex-fathers with attitude problems share a spiked cuppa Joe. Life, death and crossword puzzles are contemplated.


_What? You didn't see the episode where the Enterprise time travels to the 21__st__ century? Where have you been? (And yes I know Joanna is estranged, not dead. Both hurt.)_

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Bourbon Across the Ages

It was going to be one of those days.

Gibbs stepped out of the coffee shop and surveyed the street in either direction. He still had another hour and a half to kill before the commander's offices would open. 0900 hours seemed ridiculously late to him.

Already feeling itchy with inactivity, Gibbs marched towards the sprinkling of chairs on the sidewalk outside, coffee in hand. He needed somewhere to drink his first beverage of the day before jumping into his rental. The damn car had lousy cup holders, and even Gibbs couldn't drive while both hands were occupied with coffee cups.

Only one of the other chairs was occupied, and Gibbs left a respectable two empty seats between him and his fellow early riser. He had to suppress a growl at the thought of socializing at this time of the morning. Small talk was only to be endured when fully caffeinated. And on days like today it wasn't to be endured at all... under any circumstances... whatsoever. Because today was the day before the best day of the year, unless you were Gibbs, in which case it was the day before the worst day of the year.

Kind of like Christmas Eve from hell, except without the milk and cookies.

Gibbs allowed himself a faint nod of satisfaction as he gulped at his drink. Usually higher functions, like thought, coordinated movement, and anything beyond the breathing/heart-pumping sort of stuff, didn't kick in until at least one and a half coffees had been consumed. But U.S. Marines were awesome and scary. They could circumvent caffeine and go right to the fully-functioning stage, if needed.

So when a flash of reflected light caught the corner of his eye, Gibbs' Marine training kicked in and he looked over just in time to see a small metallic flask disappear back into the jacket pocket of the man two chairs down.

Weapon!-Immediate-Danger! signals downgraded to sense of wariness, and Gibbs ran through his mental list of reasons to consume liquor before 8 am on the outskirts of a military base.

The spiked-coffee drinking stranger was sitting with his legs sprawled out, watching the street while he sipped at a steaming cup. He was around Gibbs' own age, with fading brown hair and weathered features. On the lean side of things, venturing on thin, the man sported a worn khaki jacket and jeans, with dusty leather boots to finish off the picture. Gibbs wasn't sure whether to look for a Harley or a horse parked around the corner. Either would have been perfectly in character.

There was a hitch in the stranger's breathing, and his free hand wandered over to the pen sitting on the folded paper by his chair. The pen was gripped tightly, and he began tracing circles into a deep groove of already torn paper. Gibbs watched the pen scratch deeper into the newsprint, and the knuckles grow whiter with strain.

He took an audible slurp of coffee.

The other man let go of the pen, paused and then turned in his chair, gazing at the Federal agent expectantly.

"Somethin' the matter?" The words had a lazy drawl to them, an informal lilt that sounded as smooth as honey and cold lemonade. But something told him that brew would have quite a kick. Gibbs took in the speaker's raised eyebrow and crystalline blue eyes. If it came down to a fight, there was more than enough attitude in that glare to make up for a lack of bulk.

Smirking slightly, Gibbs dropped his eyes to the man's jacket pocket. A glimmer of silver caught the sunlight and the stranger sighed, looking down into the depths of his coffee cup for several long moments.

He glanced up at Gibbs. "It's Father's Day tomorrow."

If it was meant to be an explanation, the man had found company that could completely understand. It was all the explanation needed.

Sometimes life really really sucked.

The blue eyes met his own, reflecting a pain that Gibbs could recognise, but never express. He grunted and resettled himself in his seat.

His companion stayed silent for a moment, and then took a swig of his doctored coffee. Gibbs sat for a bit, enjoying the bitter brew in his own cup, while they both stared at the wakening street before them.

"On leave?" Gibbs startled himself by breaking the silence.

For a second he spared his coffee a suspicious look, but then realised why he felt the need to speak.

If he hadn't been on a case, Gibbs might have been at home in his own basement getting soaked in readiness for the morrow's holiday. But he wasn't, and he knew that small distractions were a blessing when you were trying not to drown in your grief while exposed to the public. At the moment he could afford to extend a branch to another man.

His fellow coffee drinker straightened his jacket, which Gibbs recognised as a delay technique to keep from reaching for the flask again. "Sort of. I'm just waitin' for the captain. We've got some errands to do while we're in port."

Gibbs tipped his head to the side slightly. "Navy?" The man's clothes had that stiff sort of look you saw in old belongings that just came out during shore leave. But the slightly hunched shoulders and sprawled legs didn't match well with military training.

There was a pause, and the man took another drink. "Air Force, actually. I'm a medical officer: a doctor."

The response made sense. The way those blue eyes shuttered briefly before answering also made sense. A medical officer he was, but not for the air force. Not exactly. The doctor's tells were obvious. He was in something classified, and that was why he was in the area.

"You a military man?"

Gibbs smiled slightly. "Former marine. Now I work for NCIS."

He received an incredulous stare. "What the heck is that supposed to stand for? National Collegiate Ice Skaters?"

Gibbs blinked. Generally people at least got the 'Criminal Investigation' part right.

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service"

The doctor looked unimpressed. "Obviously a paper-pusher that came up with that mouthful. Those desk-hugging military types love to wrap names around things till they don't make sense anymore."

Conceding that point, Gibbs checked his watch. Still more than an hour to kill. An hour and 23 minutes, to be exact.

"You ever done one of these things?"

Gibbs had to squint to read the folded up paper on the chair arm. It was a crossword puzzle. Only one square was filled in.

"Nope. Got free time: I do carpentry."

The doctor scowled and fiddled with the small cell-phone looking object on the table beside him. "I once built a birdhouse with Jo-... I... I built a birdhouse years ago. Almost took my thumb off with a handsaw. I couldn't do surgery for weeks afterwards. Last time I tried my hand at woodworkin'."

He turned his gaze to the street again and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. "Damn stupid holiday."

Gibbs gave a slow nod. It was the best and worst day of the year, depending on how the dices had fallen.

"Is public drunkenness still a crime?" The doctor asked.

The NCIS agent couldn't help a small smile as the other man withdrew the small silver flask from his shirt pocket and unscrewed the top, his deliberate movements daring Gibbs to protest.

"I think it would take more liquor than you've got in there to put you under the table."

The doctor tipped his head back and laughed, the sound warm and musical.

"You got that right.

He shifted in his chair, turning to extend a hand to Gibbs. It was surprisingly soft, the fingers slender and nails blunt: surgeon's hands. "Glad to meet you. I'm Doctor Leonard McCoy."

"Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs." He never introduced himself with his full name, but it felt necessary at the moment. Leonard McCoy's face blossomed into a warm smile.

"Jethro. Had a cousin by that name; good reliable name. He was an idiot, of course. But so are a lot of folks."

Gibbs tilted his head in agreement.

"Heck. Even I am," McCoy added, more to himself than to the NCIS Agent. "An idiot, I mean."

The more he spoke, the more twang seeped into the other man's language. Gibbs would guess he was a native of South Carolina or maybe Georgia.

He had taken Kelly as far south as North Carolina once, on a camping trip.

She had loved it.

That was the trip where she learned to swim. There was beautiful lake beside their campsite, and they spent nearly the whole time in the water. She had complete trust in him. It was amazing to realise he was the only thing keeping her up as he taught her how to float on her back and how to tread water. His hands around her middle as she glided along the surface. Kelly never panicked or thrashed. She knew he wouldn't let go.

He looked over to McCoy, who had fallen silent. The doctor was rolling his coffee cup across the surface of table absently, increasing the pressure by increments as he moved it.

Feeling Gibbs' eyes on the back of his neck, McCoy spoke aloud.

"I miss her."

_I miss her too._

There really was nothing to make it better.

And there never would be. Not in this life at least.

McCoy's voice took on a rough quality. "God I hate today! And I hate tomorrow even worse."

The sides of McCoy's paper cup finally gave in, and the remains of his coffee splashed across the wrought iron arm of his chair. With a curse he wiped up the spill, stuffed the ruined napkin in his crumpled cup, and hurled it at the nearest trash can.

Gibbs waited till the doctor had slumped back in his chair, free hand transferring its strained grip to the chair arm.

"Her name was Kelly."

The man looked at him, startled. His wide blue eyes nailed Gibbs in place for several long moments. Then his gaze slipped down and away.

"Joanna."

Gibbs nodded.

They could both fill a thousand books with words about how wonderful their little girls were, about all the things they wish they could have seen them do, about all the things that could have happened, that did happen, and that they'd give anything not to have seen happen. But grief by its very nature is inexpressible. No matter how hard they tried they would never be able to say all they wanted about those two small people. There would always be something lingering afterwards. Something throbbing from the shadows.

"Sometimes it makes you wonder if it's all worth it. All the rest of this stuff that happens." McCoy rolled the silver flask in his hands and then slipped it back into his pocket. He reached up to fasten the pocket button.

Briiiiing. Briiiiing.

Gibbs fumbled for his cell phone. "Gibbs."

The enthusiastic voice on the other end was so loud that even the doctor could hear it.

"Hey Boss! You didn't wake me up and the hotel alarm clock didn't go off either. I think you'll remember that I told you that would happen last night because you can never trust the equipment in places like these (Which frankly are pathetic compared to the places the FBI and CIA use when they're in town.) but that's beside the point, Boss, and now I'm up and completely ready to go except you took the car..." DiNozzo's voice trailed off.

Smiling slightly, Gibbs said, "Two blocks down. The Bean Coffee Bar."

"Oh great! I thought-"

He snapped the phone shut.

"My Senior Field Agent."

McCoy nodded, a caustic smile breaking across his face. "Is he as irritating in person as he is over the phone?"

"Perfectly so."

"I guess that's not always a bad thing."

"Nope.

The doctor picked up his odd looking cell-phone from the table and turned it over in his hand. "Do you work with the same team of people most of the time? The same agents?"

"It's changed a bit over the years, but yeah. It's nice that way."

"Our ship: it's been a while now that we've had the same senior officers. All of us still working together."

"It makes a difference." Gibbs said. "A big one."

McCoy nodded. "It does."

Gibbs took a long draw of his coffee and realised he had reached the bottom of his first cup. He popped open the lid of the second and watched the steam rise.

Slipping the cell-phone into his pocket, McCoy settled back into his seat and crossed his arms across his chest loosely.

They watched the traffic pass...

And pass...

Gibbs saw Tony jogging up the block.

It was time to go. He saw a man across the street waving in their direction and jerked his head at Leonard. "That for you?"

"Oh. Jim. Well it sure took him long enough."

"Bones!"

Dr. McCoy nodded at him, and Gibbs gave a tiny smile.

They headed off in opposite directions.

"You talking to somebody, Boss?" Tony said, as he came to a halt in front of the older Agent. "Does he have something to do with the case? Cause I thought you said small talk is useless and I wasn't allowed to talk about useless things before eight in the morning."

Gibbs rolled his eyes and continued walking towards his car. "Not everyone talks about useless things, DiNozzo."

Tony hurried to follow after him, walking backwards so he could stare at the stranger as he left. "I dunno. Sounds suspicious to me. Are you sure you didn't drink something other than coffee this morning?"

He checked to see if Gibbs was giving him a glare.

He was.

Tony was going to return to staring at McCoy, but found that the doctor had stopped and was looking back their way.

They stared at each other for a minute.

Dr. McCoy gave him a one-eyebrowed glare that was a little too familiar for comfort, and Tony turned to hurry after his boss. "Well that was creepy."

The End

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_In memory of the people we lost too soon, and the people who make it hurt a little bit less._


End file.
